


the way the whole thing started

by meansgirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Flirting, First Meetings, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: The man with the umbrella appeared and offered to share just as Greg flipped up the collar of his jean jacket to protect his neck from the cold drizzle that had just started to come down in annoying spits and drips.His voice was smooth and plummy. Posh. Maybe a little shy. All he said was, “You’re welcome to share my umbrella.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 17
Kudos: 254





	the way the whole thing started

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheArtStudentYouHate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtStudentYouHate/gifts).



> Another request, this one from TheArtStudentYouHate:  
> Uni mystrade where Mycroft has to take public transportation but ends up meeting Greg á la [Bus Stop by the Hollies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3XnYpGY5Z8)
> 
> Thanks for this one, it was sweet and fun to write <3

The man with the umbrella appeared and offered to share just as Greg flipped up the collar of his jean jacket to protect his neck from the cold drizzle that had just started to come down in annoying spits and drips. 

His voice was smooth and plummy. Posh. Maybe a little shy. All he said was, “You’re welcome to share my umbrella.” 

Greg said yes, because he _hated_ the feeling of cold rain creeping into his hair and down the back of his neck, and because the poor posh bloke - all tall straight lines and slightly windblown hair that had obviously been neatly combed at some point in the day - looked a little terrified, like he hadn’t known he was going to offer and now he wanted to swallow his tongue. 

Greg couldn’t blame him for the regret. Greg looked a bit of a mess after finishing a third shift at his security job, and then four hours in the morning with his sister’s kids. He still had a class to get to halfway across London, and he was feeling every hour he hadn’t slept. He probably looked worse than he felt. 

“Thanks,” he said, trying not to get too far into the man with the umbrella’s personal space. 

“It’s no trouble.”

And then they stood there for fifteen minutes in utter silence, until the bus came. 

“I’m catching the local,” the man said as Greg thanked him. “Have a lovely afternoon.”

Greg gave a little wave as he boarded the express bus and thought fleetingly of how odd and nice that had been. 

Halfway to his university campus he realized that his denim collar smelled faintly of a very nice cologne that certainly wasn’t his own. 

He let himself enjoy that a bit more than was really _normal._ It was just this side of weird, sitting on the bus sucking down a nose full of fancy cologne off some random bloke whose name he’d never know.

So sue him, he was tired and hadn’t been laid in months. Greg closed his eyes and rested his temple against the bus window. He had maybe forty-five minutes to power nap; may as well try. 

  
  


*

  
  


The man with the umbrella was there again two days later. Greg watched Sandra’s kids - Emma, 6, and Jason, 4 - on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. He got Emma off to school and then dropped Jason off for half a day at his creche. It was simple on paper, but was often chaotic and exhausting in practice. On this particular Wednesday, he had at least slept the night before and would have the afternoon free to actually study and maybe even do his laundry. He felt a little less gargoyle-like next to Umbrella Man and his sharp suit, this time. 

“Hello again,” Greg said. 

The man smiled a little nervously. “Hello.”

“You have your umbrella again today.”

He glanced down at his own hand, his fingers tightening over the curved handle. “Yes… I do?”

Greg felt like an idiot even as he said it: “It’s sunny today.”

The man’s lips twitched. “One never knows.” 

“Guess so.” Greg shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I’m Greg.”

“Mycroft,” said the man, and shifted the umbrella to extend his hand. 

“New to the neighborhood?” Greg wondered. “Only, I’ve been taking the noon express for months and never met you before. I’ve made lots of bus waiting friends, you see.” He gestured with his chin to the only other person at the stop, standing a couple of meters away, a woman absorbed in a book. 

“Ah.” Mycroft tilted his head to the side. “That’s… observant.”

“Sorry,” Greg murmured, hands clenching in his pockets. “Is that weird? I don’t mean to be nosy. Just making conversation.” 

“I don’t mind. I… work in the neighborhood, sometimes, yes.”

“Same. Sort of. Well, not really. I’m a temporary nanny for my sister.” Greg waved a hand down the road. “Youngest goes to a half day creche that way. My sister picks her up after her shift.”

“How nice,” said Mycroft, though he seemed…

Well, it’s not like Greg was all that interesting. Why did he think this total stranger would care about his babysitting gig, anyway?

Luckily, the express bus pulled up just then. “This is me,” Greg said weakly. “Have a nice one, Mycroft.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft took a step back. “You as well.” 

  
  


*

  
  


Umbrella Man - Mycroft - wasn’t at the bus stop on Friday. 

On Monday, he showed up again, umbrella in hand, and said. “Nice day today.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “S’why I’m covered in grass stains. Took the kids to the park and got my arse kicked in a game of tag.” 

“How old are they?”

“Six and four.” 

“Two small children ‘ _kicked your arse’_ in the park?”

Greg grinned at the implied quotation marks. “Yep. You know, it’s a bank holiday today.” 

“...yes?”

“But you’re in a suit.”

“Yes.”

Greg shrugged. “No day off today?” 

Mycroft’s lips twisted in a wry little smile. “No, not for me.”

“Me, either,” Greg sighed. “At least there are no classes to get to.”

“Oh? What do you study?”

“Criminology.” Greg figured he may as well be cheeky and satisfy his curiosity. “Bet you went somewhere fancy. S’the accent.”

Mycroft laughed. 

It was a cute laugh. A surprised one, like he didn’t laugh often. That was a shame. 

_Oh, reel it in,_ Greg told himself. _You’re not going to get a crush on some weirdo with an umbrella._

“I went somewhere fancy, yes,” Mycroft said, as the bus arrived. 

“What’d _you_ study?”

Mycroft paused, like he had to think about it, which was odd. “History,” he said, seeming to have settled on it. 

Greg felt his own eyes narrow. “Hm,” he said. 

“Among other things,” said Mycroft. 

Greg moved to board the bus. “Where’d you go to school?” 

Mycroft shrugged. “Somewhere fancy.”

It was the humor behind the eyes that really sealed Greg’s fate. It was that plus the stiff shoulders and the hands that were trying not to fidget with the umbrella handle. 

_Cute._

“See you Wednesday?”

Mycroft nodded. Greg hurried onto the bus before the driver had a chance to grouse at him for holding up her route. 

  
  


*

  
  


“Oxford,” Greg guessed on Wednesday. 

“No.”

“Cambridge.” 

“No.”

“UCL. No - Imperial College.”

Mycroft huffed. “No. You’re guessing in the wrong country.”

Greg raised both eyebrows at him. “You studied abroad? This would’ve been helpful to know. You’re cheating.”

“Not _abroad,_ per se.”

Greg hummed and thought it over. “Scotland or Ireland, then.”

“Good.”

“Hmmm.”

“Do you need a hint?”

Greg shot him the most unimpressed look he could muster, and guessed. “St. Andrews?” 

“Ding ding ding.” Mycroft rolled his eyes a bit. “Curiosity satisfied?”

“No,” said Greg,then felt his cheeks heat when it came out a bit flirtier than intended. He decided to lean into that, though. In for a penny and all. “Do I win a prize?”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to the side, down the block. “The bus is arriving,” he said. “Do you want a prize?”

“Maybe.”

“Next time I see you, perhaps I’ll bring one.”

“Friday?” 

“Next week.”

Greg couldn’t help but grin. “Alright, then. See you, Mycroft.” 

“Have a good week, Greg.”

  
  


*

  
  


Mycroft was already at the stop when Greg arrived, and he was holding a small paper bag. 

“Your prize,” he said, as even and casual as you please. 

Greg, though, was instantly delighted. “I wasn’t serious!”

Mycroft cleared his throat, and little pink splotches bloomed on his cheeks. “You don’t have to take it.”

“Oh, yes I do. This is exciting. Thanks!” Greg took the bag and unfolded the top to look inside. “Oh, _yum,_ seriously?” He fished out one of three iced danishes. “Is this raspberry?” 

“It is.” 

“I love raspberry anything.” Greg held out the bag. “You’ll have one with me.”

“No, no.” Mycroft held up a hand as if to block his own view of the pastries. “No, those were won by you.”

“I’m not going to be able to eat three of these.” Greg made a show of thinking about it for a second. “Well, I _could,_ but I shouldn’t.” He shook the bag. “Come on, you know you want to.”

Mycroft huffed, the closest he got to a laugh, usually, and gave in. “You are a bad influence.”

“Good,” said Greg, and took a huge bite of his danish. “Holy shit.” He caught himself and covered his mouth with his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbled, hurrying to chew and swallow. “Sorry, I’m rude. That’s so fucking delicious, _wow.”_ He licked a flake of pastry off his thumb and sighed. “Christ, I needed this. Thank you. The sugar’ll keep me from completely zoning out in lectures this afternoon.” 

“You… often appear a bit tired on Mondays,” Mycroft ventured, then took a very small, polite bite of the danish Greg had forced on him. 

“I work nights, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Eleven to seven, security.” 

“And then you come straight here to mind your niece and nephew?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And then you go from here to class?” 

“Yup.”

“How do you manage?” 

Greg shrugged loosely. “Coffee,” he said. “And I’m a night owl, I guess. I catch up on sleep Monday night and Tuesday morning.” He nodded pointedly toward the pastry in Mycroft’s hand. “That’s not going to eat itself.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took a second bite. 

“What about you?” Greg wondered. “What do you do? You said you work round here, but you catch an afternoon bus, so you must go place to place?” 

“Sometimes.” Mycroft wiped a finger delicately over the corner of his mouth, checking for crumbs that weren’t there. “I work for the government. Nothing exciting.” 

Greg took this on as he popped the last piece of his pastry past his lips, thinking as he chewed. “What part of the government?”

“Transport.” 

“Interesting.”

Mycroft made a face. “No, it isn’t.”

“Well, for all I know it could be.” Greg wanted to lick the last of the sugary icing off his fingers but thought that might cross a line or two, so he dusted his hands off and sighed, happy with his impending sugar rush. “Thanks again, for the pastry.” 

“As I said, you won them.”

“Fair and square,” Greg added, as the bus pulled up behind him. “This was nice, you being here a bit early. Nice chatting with you.” 

“Same to you. Enjoy your lectures.” 

  
  


*

  
  


Greg didn’t see Mycroft for the rest of the week, and then over the weekend it became disgustingly clear that he had picked up the stomach flu that had been going round Jason’s creche. He called Sandra Sunday evening, dreading having to let her down. 

“You’ve been sick all weekend?” She sounded ready to murder him. “And you’re _just now_ saying something? You idiot, I’m a _doctor,_ I could have taken care of you! Have you been suffering alone in that awful student flat?” 

“I don’t want you or the kids catching this, and I’m _fine,_ and my flat is also _fine.”_ Greg tightened the duvet wrapped around his shoulders, trying not to sound like he was shivering. 

“I’m around germs all day, and both kids would’ve gone down already if they were going to get it. Get round here _immediately._ I’ll put you in the guest room, you won’t be anywhere near Em and Jay.” 

“No,” Greg said, and then had to drop the phone and run for the toilet. 

  
  


*

  
  


Sandra ushered him in, instructed him to drink the electrolyte solution she pressed into his hand, and then put him right to bed. 

Greg still felt he should be in his own flat, but he had to admit that Sandra’s lovely townhouse smelled better. The mattress in the guest room was far less lumpy, too, and the duvet was down-filled, not cheap polyester like the one at Greg’s. 

“You know,” he said, when she popped in to check that his fever had continued to go down, “it might have almost ended in bloodshed, but I’m glad you got to keep the house.” 

Sandra snorted and shook down the mercury. “Your temperature’s almost normal. And yes, me too. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d had to move. I could never afford a place like this, not in this neighborhood. Not in London at all.” 

“You okay, moneywise?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine, thank you, so mind your own business, dickhead.” Sandra sat at the edge of the mattress, by his shins. 

He liked it when she got annoyed with him. Her accent shifted, sounded more like his. “You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“And what would you do? Get _another_ job on top of everything else to help us out?” She rubbed a hand over the lump of his feet under the blanket. “You know I love you so much, right? You are the only man I’ll ever trust again.” 

Greg let his tired eyes closed. “We’ll find you a good one, babe. One that’s not your annoying little brother. Or gay.” 

She hummed. “Alright, I guess. Thank you for worrying, but Robert’s paying support as agreed, and with you helping out I don’t worry for a second about affording full time care for Jason.” 

“That rich bastard should be paying for it, and then some.” 

“He’s not as rich as you think. Maybe if he could make a living out of fucking cocktail waitresses, he would be.” 

“If I weren’t half dead, I’d go rough him up for you. Right now. Swear.”

Sandra laughed softly. “I know you would. Go to sleep. I’ve taken tomorrow off, and if you’re feeling better we can go for lunch after I drop off Jay. Okay?” 

“Mmhm.” Greg flailed a hand toward her, and she caught it. He gave her fingers a squeeze. “Love you.” 

Her hand was cool and dry, and it felt as if its gentle stroke over his forehead could cure the fever on its own. 

  
  


*

  
  


“What is it?” Sandra asked the next day, when Greg stopped and did a double-take halfway through the crosswalk.

“I know the man who just drove by that way,” he said, gesturing at the traffic sailing along the cross street. “I’m pretty sure, anyway. But it’s strange… he doesn't drive.” 

Sandra quirked an eyebrow. “Make more sense, please,” she said. 

“It’s this bloke I chat with at the bus stop sometimes.” Greg shrugged and carried on walking, carefully not meeting her eyes. “I figured he didn’t drive, you know, because he takes the bus. Not _my_ bus, because I catch the express. He works for the Department of Transport.” 

“Hmm.” Sandra slipped her hand between Greg’s arm and his side, hanging on to him as they walked. “Go on.” 

“Well I think he flirts with me a bit, but I can’t really tell.” Greg chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to stave off an embarrassed flush. “He’s really posh. I dunno.” 

“Of course he is,” his sister sighed, shaking him a bit. “You _love_ a posh boy. Always have.”

Greg whined in his throat. “Please don’t tease me. Anyway, if that was him just now, what on earth is he doing taking the local bus around? He _has a car.”_

“Greg, he probably doesn't want to deal with parking. Or it wasn’t him! Maybe he’s just on your mind.” Sandra opened her mouth to say more, her dark eyes narrowing wickedly, probably about to tease him even harder, but Greg was saved by the bell - or the pager. “Damn,” she hissed, digging for the beeping little square in her purse. “I _took today off.”_

“You’re indispensable,” Greg told her, meaning it wholeheartedly. 

Sandra grimaced at the little pager window. “I have to go,” she said. 

“S’alright,” Greg told her. “Thanks for having me over, even though I was _fine.”_

“Well, you could’ve fallen over and whacked your skull on the toilet, and then where would we be?” 

“By the time I made it to yours I wasn’t even sick anymore.” 

“Whatever.” Sandra poked him between the ribs. “You’re alright? You can go back to mine, you know. Do _not_ go to class, Gregory.” 

“I won’t! I’ll go home! I’ll take a nap! I promise!” Greg lifted his hands, palms out, in the air in surrender. 

She hugged him, and Greg let her. He stayed until she’d hailed a cab, and then figured he may as well circle round to his usual bus stop and head home that way. 

  
  


*

  
  


Mycroft got out of a parked car a little less than a block away about halfway there. It brought Greg’s steps up short. He paused there on the pavement and watched as Mycroft exited the very nice car with his umbrella in hand, and set on his way in the same direction Greg had already been headed. 

He normally would’ve called out to someone he knew - right away, not even a thought - but Greg hung back for a moment before following at a fair distance, his mind kicking into gear. 

Did Mycroft work that close? This was all residential just here, though they were headed toward the main road where the bus stop was. But the Department of Transport didn’t have offices over there, did it? It was all little shops and the like. Hair salons and boutique furniture stores. Greg began to put together a vague picture in his mind, of what might actually have been going on all this time. 

Evidence stacked up in his mind and he very forcefully shoved away the tiny part of him that was screaming: HE’S A SERIAL KILLER, YOU IDIOT! RUN!

Just as Greg expected, Mycroft came to a halt at the bus stop. As he did, he checked his very fancy, more-expensive-than-one-term-at-Greg’s-university, watch. 

He glanced around, then settled in to wait. Waiting for Greg. 

Greg’s heart seemed to stop, and he very nearly turned tail and fled, the feeling was so intense. But then all at once his pulse was racing, and he was walking with purpose. 

“Mycroft!”

He glanced up and smiled. Greg thought how lovely it was, even while his brain kept at work on the puzzle of why-how-what-okay as he approached. It must have been obvious on his face, because he watched Mycroft’s face begin to fall. 

“Is something the matter? You look pale.”

Greg screeched to a halt. “Actually, I’ve had a touch of illness, so I’d better not come too close,” he said. Then, figuring that blunt was better in this situation: “Did you drive a car and park it round the corner from this bus stop just to come stand here and talk to me?” 

Mycroft’s eyes went wide. “I— Well. It’s not. _I’m_ not—”

Greg smiled. “Breathe.” 

“I know it… looks bad.”

“Okay.” Greg shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. He felt a little dizzy. He was still a bit weak from the last two days of illness, and the adrenaline rush he’d experienced as he realized - well, half-realized - what was going on had come on fast, leaving him feeling as winded as if he’d run here. “It doesn't matter what it looks like, just tell me what it is.” 

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking, and then sighed and glanced away as color returned to his face in a slow, embarrassed blush. “I… sometimes I…” He cleared his throat. “I noticed you here, one day. I was walking. I’d had a meeting not far from here and it was a lovely day, and… and I walked past and you were standing here speaking with a tiny elderly woman.”

Greg blinked, slow, trying to search his memory for that. 

“You were being kind to her, though she was saying all manner of inappropriate and overly-personal things. Her medical conditions, I think.” 

“Ah,” Greg said, and nodded. “Okay, I think I remember that? It was a couple months ago.”

“Right.” Mycroft’s hands curled tightly around his umbrella handle. “Well, I… walked by again the next day, and you weren’t here. I walked by again the day after that, and you were. You were here on the Friday. A pattern was easy to spot and I… I was simply lucky that it rained.” He tried, and failed, to make eye contact with Greg, his gaze flickering towards him and then quickly away. “You are very attractive, but… you also have a. Kindness. About you. I thought.” 

_“Breathe,”_ Greg said for the second time. “Damn, I really wish I hadn’t spent the last two days being disgustingly ill. I’d… I dunno. Kiss you on the cheek, maybe.” He bit his lip hard against a wave of embarrassment. “Um, that would probably be too much. But. We could have coffee together. Soon.” 

“That would be… nice.”

“Just checking - do you normally drive here? To see me, I mean.” 

Mycroft shook his head. “Sometimes. Not all of the time.” 

Greg tried to keep back a smile. “You’re right that it looks bad. It’s weird.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Greg told the butterfly feeling in his chest to just _wait_ _a little while,_ so he could look cool for one more minute. He shrugged. “I think I could like weird. Let’s see about it. Over coffee. Friday?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Friday.” 

“I’ll be here Wednesday, like always,” Greg told him, wishing he could catch Mycroft’s eyes with his, but those stayed lowered, studying his own fingers, or his umbrella or shoes. “You could still come and meet me, if you like. Chit chat and then go back to whatever it is you do with the rest of your day. What is this, your lunch break?”

Mycroft nodded. 

“Do you ever eat _lunch?”_ Greg huffed. Mycroft practically radiated guilt. Greg wasn’t sure how he could tell, but he just _could._ That was a look of guilt. “Not on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, huh?

Mycroft looked like he’d squirm if he were the type. He wasn’t the type, so he seemed to just go very still. Guiltily still. 

“Okay,” Greg laughed. “I don’t have a pen to give you my number, didn’t bring my school bag when Sandra ordered me to come over so she could nurse me back to health.”

“Your sister?”

“Mm. She’s bossy. And a doctor. Thinks it gives her authority over me.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched as he reached into his suit jacket for a slim leather wallet. “As an older sibling, I have to tell you that we don’t need anything more than that to establish a sense of authority.” 

“You have a younger…?”

“Brother. Fourteen.” 

“That’s quite the gap.” Greg rocked back on his heels. “Because you’re what? Twenty...hmm…”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak and then clicked it shut. He opened his wallet and withdrew a card. “I’ll let you guess. On Wednesday,” he said, handing the little rectangle of cardstock over to Greg. 

Greg took it and made sure to let their fingertips brush when he did. “Okay. Can I get a freebie now?”

“I won’t set a limit on the number of guesses.”

“Maybe you should.” Greg shrugged. “Anyway, I’m twenty-one. I bet you’re the same. That’s my guess.” 

Mycroft shook his head. “Sorry, but no.” He glanced over Greg’s shoulder, down the street. “The bus is nearly here.” 

“Okay,” Greg said. “Bring lunch with you on Wednesday. Don’t starve just to stand around with me.” 

Mycroft’s expression was unreadable. “I enjoy standing around with you,” he said. 

The brakes on the bus hissed as it drew to a stop.

“See you, Mycroft,” Greg said, boarding backwards as usual. 

Mycroft simply raised on hand in a stiff wave. 

Greg, never able to leave well enough alone, blew him a kiss.

The sight of Mycroft’s flushed cheeks would carry him through til Wednesday, he was pretty sure. 

  
  


*

  
  


By the following Monday Greg knew: 

Mycroft’s last name was Holmes. He was twenty-three years old. He definitely didn’t just work for Transport, but Greg wasn’t going to press about it. He was a _genius._ And he was so inexperienced and shy that Greg wasn’t sure if he wanted to muss him up or wrap him in cotton wool. 

The following Monday, it was a near thing - Mycroft said on Sunday night, carefully suggestive, that if Greg liked, he could simply let Mycroft drive him to and from his overnight shift, deliver him straight to Sandra’s door. And Greg almost said yes. But. 

“Let’s torture ourselve a little,” he said. “I’ll see you in the afternoon, won’t I?”

Mycroft made a face. “That’s hours.” 

“And hours and hours,” Greg murmured, leaning in to steal a kiss. “Fine. Meet me in the morning. I get off the bus around eight, walk over to Sandra’s. Want to walk with me? Or drive me so you can go straight to work?” 

Mycroft agreed. 

And so, on the following Monday, a tired Greg got off the bus from his night of walking back and forth and back and forth, and spotted Mycroft’s fancy little car idling just beyond the bus zone. Greg’s fingers crunched the folded paper bag in his hand as he tried desperately not to rush and _throw_ himself into the car. 

He definitely didn’t manage to look smooth, but he did succeed in simply _getting in_ to the car without launching himself directly into Mycroft’s lap. 

“These are for you,” he said, handing Mycroft the bag of pastries. “And for me, but you know what I mean.” 

“And this is for you,” Mycroft said, his bright eyes tracking over Greg’s face and not bothering to look at his own hands retrieving and handing over the paper cup. “Good morning.” 

Greg tried to bite down on his grin. “Good morning,” he said, and leaned across the car. 

Mycroft - shy, yeah; a bit inexperienced, definitely; weird, of course - was a _very_ good kisser. 

Greg sighed happily and sucked teasingly at his lower lip, just to hear the sweet little noise he’d discovered early Sunday morning. 

“I should take you to your sister’s,” Mycroft murmured, close to Greg’s mouth. “Direct me there?” 

“Yeah.” Greg sat back, but kept a hand on Mycroft’s thigh as they pulled away from the curb. “I’ll see you at lunch time?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Absolutely.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
